‘He has?’
‘George Clissold. James Maxted’s uncle.’
Ireton frowned. ‘You never said the guy was related to Max.’
‘I didn’t find out until earlier this afternoon. Sam Twentyman told me.’
Ireton’s frown deepened. ‘Why’d you go and see Twentyman?’
‘He met le Singe once. There was a chance he’d know something useful.’
‘But he didn’t?’
‘Not about le Singe. Listen, Travis, it’s pretty obvious Noburo Tomura arranged for Clissold to be grabbed, with or without his father’s consent. Witnesses say the kidnappers were either Chinese or Japanese. Zamaron’s on the case, but he has no idea Tomura’s looking for le Singe and could have seen Soutine as a means of getting to him. So, there’s not much chance he’ll figure out who even took Clissold – far less where they’re holding him.’
‘And this concerns us how?’
‘Considering what happened to Soutine, Clissold’s life has to be in danger. We should tell Zamaron Tomura’s the obvious suspect.’
Ireton’s frown turned to a gawk of amazement. ‘You’re kidding, right? Why in hell would we do that? Tomura’s a client, Schools. We can’t rat on him.’
‘Clissold’s likely to end up dead if we don’t.’
‘That’s not our fault. We’ve never even met the guy. But we have met Tomura. And I’m trying to establish a business relationship with his father. Our commercial future’s at stake here.’
‘A man’s life is at stake as well, Travis.’
Ireton seemed entirely sober now. He turned deliberately and fixed Morahan with a stare. ‘We don’t
know
Tomura killed Soutine and we don’t
know
he kidnapped Clissold. What we do know for a hard financial fact is that he’s paying us to find le Singe. We should concentrate on the job in hand.’
‘And to hell with Clissold?’
‘We didn’t come to Paris to help anyone except ourselves. I get the feeling lately you may have forgotten that.’
‘How could I, with you to remind me?’
Ireton stood up, holding his stare. ‘Say nothing to Zamaron. Forget Clissold and find le Singe. OK?’
Morahan was still and silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded and said, ‘OK.’
Sheffield Victoria station was thronged with locals hurrying home from work. Max and Appleby would have looked to a neutral observer like two unremarkable members of the crowd. And as far as they could tell, neutral observers were the only kind around. No car had followed theirs from York. The driver supplied by Tunnicliffe had taken a few diversions to confirm as much. They had also called on a gunsmith, who had readily supplied ammunition for Max’s gun once Appleby had waved a warrant card under his nose.
Max was carrying the Grey File. Appleby had the photographs of its pages in his bag. The negatives were in a stamped envelope addressed to Mrs C. Jeavons, 64 Balcaskie Road, Eltham, London SE9, currently clasped in Appleby’s hand. He had written a note to accompany the negatives during the car journey from York:
Cora – Keep these safe until you hear from me. Strictest confidence. Love, H
.
‘Who’s Cora, Horace?’ Max asked as they threaded a path through the commuters towards the station’s postbox. He realized with faint surprise that he had taken to calling Appleby by his Christian name.
‘My sister.’
‘Lucky for you you have a sibling you can trust. What about her husband?’
‘Dead and gone. No one will see this but Cora. She’s straight and true.’
‘And your code-breaking friend in Oxford. Is he straight and true?’
‘I think so. I hope so. Bostridge is a mathematical genius as well as a fluent German speaker. There’s none better at what he does. We shared him during the war with Admiralty Intelligence. It’s largely thanks to Bostridge that we cracked the Zimmerman telegram.’
‘It’s an obvious question, but how can you be sure his name isn’t on the list you’ll be asking him to decipher?’
‘He insisted on being allowed to go back to Oxford as soon as the war was over. I reckon that’s a good sign. But I can’t be
sure
of anything. Or anyone.’
‘Except Cora.’
‘Except Cora. And you, Max.’
For safety’s sake, Sam could not leave the Majestic. Morahan had advised him to sit tight and he knew that was the only sensible thing to do in the circumstances. If they could lift George Clissold off the street, they could do the same to him. An evening confined to his room or the designated common room in the basement was an unappetizing prospect, but there was no alternative. He would just have to while away the hours as best he could.
His visit to the front desk to check if there was any mail for him was undertaken with little hope there would be. In the month he had spent in Paris, he had received just one letter of a personal nature: from his mother, telling him his father was ‘in a bait’ about Sam walking out on his job at the bakery and had declared he would never be allowed to walk back into it; she urged Sam to bide his time before attempting a reconciliation and to ‘take care of yourself among all them foreigners’.
When, to Sam’s surprise, he was informed there was a letter for him after all, he assumed it must be from his mother, perhaps reporting his father’s heart had begun to soften. But no, the letter had a French stamp on it and Sam did not recognize the handwriting. The smudged postmark indicated it had been sent from Marseilles, but the date was illegible.
Sam moved to a corner of the lobby and opened the envelope. There was a second sealed envelope inside, addressed to Max, together with a covering note. Surprise compounded surprise when Sam saw who the note was from.
Marseilles, 28th April
Mr Twentyman – I must soon board the steamer that will take me to Japan. Therefore I write in haste. Please convey the enclosed letter to Max when you see him next. It contains information I believe he will wish to have. It was not in my possession when we met. I hope you will find a way out of your difficulties. Remember everything I said. – Kuroda.
Sam went up to his room, where he debated what to do with the letter. There was nowhere he could store it that was absolutely secure, so he decided to carry it with him. He resisted the fleeting temptation to open it. If it contained anything Kuroda thought he ought to know, he would have told him.
Sam turned off the lamp, lit a cigarette and stood by the window, gazing out at the dank, twilit roofs of the city. Le Singe might be somewhere out there, watching him, even at that moment. There was no way to be sure. There was no way to be sure of anything.
He pondered Kuroda’s closing words –
Remember everything I said
– and tried to do exactly that. What did Kuroda mean? What had he learnt in Marseilles that Max – but not Sam – needed to know?
THE TRAIN THREADED
down through the Midlands as the evening advanced. Max drifted in and out of sleep. Appleby was wide awake, tending his pipe and staring thoughtfully out through the rain-speckled windows at the deepening darkness.
It was late when they reached Oxford. Few other passengers disembarked and there were fewer still waiting to join. Steady rain was falling, blown on a cold wind.
They took a taxi to Bostridge’s college, Appleby reckoning that a walk along thinly peopled streets was a risk they did not need to run. As to whether they would find Bostridge at his college, Appleby did not know. ‘I wouldn’t know where else to try,’ was all he said on that point.
They were in luck. The porter told them
Dr
Bostridge was indeed somewhere about the place. He ventured as far as the quad and peered across it. ‘Yes, gentlemen, there you are.’ He pointed. ‘His light’s on.’
‘He’s always been one to burn the midnight oil,’ Appleby remarked.
‘I see you know him well, sir,’ said the porter.
They crossed the quad and climbed the stairs to Bostridge’s room. The outer door was open, indicating he was available. Appleby knocked on the inner.
‘Who goes there?’ came a shrill-voiced response.
‘Horace Appleby, Jeremy, with a friend.’
‘Horace?’
A few seconds later, the door was yanked open. Dr Jeremy Bostridge looked to Max to be all of about twelve years old, with a pale, unblemished and apparently beardless face, a mop of unruly hair and chestnut-brown eyes twinkling behind thick-framed glasses. The flannel trousers, collarless shirt and cricket sweater he was wearing all appeared to be a couple of sizes too big for him.
‘Horace, this is wonderful.’ He clasped Appleby by the shoulder. ‘A dream fulfilled.’
‘If I figure in your dreams, Jeremy, I don’t want to know about it, all right? Can we come in?’
‘Please do.’
Bostridge stepped back and they entered a large, comfortably furnished room. There was a blackboard on an easel in one corner, covered with scrawled equations, and a broad desk in another, the top barely visible beneath a slew of papers.
‘Keeping busy, Jeremy?’ Appleby asked.
‘Oh, always. But mathematics is infinite, so that’s more or less guaranteed. Who, er . . .’ Bostridge looked towards Max.
‘Sorry. This is James Maxted.’
‘Call me Max,’ Max said, shaking Bostridge’s hand.
‘How d’you do, Max? Where have you both travelled from?’
‘Different starting points,’ Appleby replied as he surveyed the room. ‘Same destination.’
‘I don’t recall you being much of a riddler, Horace. I’m seeing a new side to you. But what’s brought you to my door so late at night? I only ask. I’m delighted to see you whatever the reason. Glass of port for either of you?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Appleby, answering for both of them.
Bostridge looked quizzically at Max. ‘Are you the strong, silent type? Horace likes that in his assistants.’
‘I’m not his assistant.’
‘Heard from anyone in the Service since you came back here, Jeremy?’ Appleby asked levelly.
Bostridge frowned. ‘No. Clean break and all that. C made it pretty crystal I’d be cut off like an erring nephew. Hence my surprise at your manifestation out of the night.’
‘We’re in a tight spot.’
‘Really?’
‘And we need your help.’
‘Mine? Well, any time. What can I do for you?’
Appleby sat down on the sofa, wedged his bag between his feet and opened it. ‘Events in Paris have led me to suspect Lemmer has spies in our own network.’
‘That sounds nasty. You’ve been in Paris, have you? A cushy berth, I imagine.’
‘Far from it.’ Appleby pulled from his bag the buff envelope containing the photographs of the contents of the Grey File. ‘Max has brought me confirmation of my suspicions.’ He handed the envelope to Bostridge.
‘What’s this?’
‘A coded list of Lemmer’s foreign operatives.’
Bostridge whistled. ‘You’re joking.’
‘No. It’s the real McCoy.’
‘Good God.’ Bostridge walked over to the desk, sat down and angled the lamp for a clear view of the photographs as he slid them out of the envelope. ‘
Nachrichten-Abteilung. Besonderen Massnahmen
. It’s a top-secret file. From Lemmer’s own office.’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you come by this?’
‘Pretend you’re still in the Service, Jeremy. Limit your questions to the task in hand.’
‘Well, it certainly looks like it’s what you said: a list of agents. All non-Germans?’
‘Probably.’
‘Then Lemmer was busier than most of the Kaiser’s generals. There are lots of names here, Horace.’
‘And we’ll know some of them as loyal friends.’
‘Truly?’ Bostridge looked pitifully afflicted by the thought.
Appleby nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘People within the Service?’
‘Oh yes. I’m sure of that.’
‘Good Lord. Is that why you’ve come to me direct?’
‘Can you decode the list?’
Bostridge’s expression suggested the question was absurd. ‘Of course I can decode it. There isn’t a German code devised I can’t crack.’
‘Then we need you to do it. As soon as possible.’
‘OK. Yes.’ Bostridge looked down at the photographs. ‘I’m answering the call of patriotic duty again, am I?’
‘You are.’
‘Then I’d better jump to it. But I’ll need my code log. It’s a record I kept of the keys I worked out to various German code systems. Chances are this will have been coded using one of them, though not necessarily straightforwardly. Anyway, it’s at the cottage. My little rural hideaway. Do you have a car?’
‘No.’
‘Then we can all squeeze into mine. Don’t worry. The cottage is only a few miles out of Oxford. I can put you up overnight if you like. Unless you want to leave me to it.’
‘No. We’ll come with you. Thanks for the offer.’
‘It’s not the Ritz.’
‘Never mind. We’ll take anything, won’t we, Max?’
‘We will.’ Max looked at Bostridge. ‘How long will it take you to decipher the list?’
‘Hard to say. Could be an hour. Could be twelve. Could be twenty-four. And I do have my teaching commitments, remember.’
‘This takes priority,’ said Appleby.
‘Even though I’m no longer in the Service?’
‘Even though.’
‘Good news for you, then: I work at my best in the small hours. Shall we go?’
Morahan had drunk more rum, bourbon and tequila than was good for him in his younger days. In his middle years, he had virtually abandoned drunkenness. That evening had been a rare exception. He had already betrayed Ireton once – as Ireton would see it – over his contact with the German delegation. He could not bring himself to defy him where George Clissold, a man he had never actually met, was concerned. But agreeing not to tell Zamaron what he knew did not sit well with his conscience. The brandy did not make it sit any better either. But it blunted the edge of his guilt. It blunted just about everything.
Making his way home from the last bar he had visited, aware that Tomura’s man was still on his tail but no longer caring, he reflected, almost neutrally, that his partnership with Travis Ireton would soon have to end. How and over what and with what consequences he could not foresee. But it could not endure. He knew that much for certain.
His apartment was on the third floor in one of a row of peeling-stuccoed buildings near Gare St-Lazare. The
gardienne
’s light was out when he let himself into the hall. He made his way slowly and unsteadily up the curving stone stairs, confident he would sleep deeply.